


De amores y de martirios

by lloronadeazulceleste



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, Falling In Love Again, Modern AU, missunderstandings, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 08:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16092047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lloronadeazulceleste/pseuds/lloronadeazulceleste
Summary: Imelda went away without as much as a goodbye. Héctor spent years convinced he had forgotten her.Neither of them could run from their feelings forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y el que no sabe de amores, Llorona, no sabe lo que es martirio.
> 
> Or: Encountering an ex is always a nightmare. Especially if you never stopped loving them in the first place.
> 
> Modern, Reverse AU.

Imelda paced around her room. The wooden floor kept echoing the click of her heeled shoes, and every step was a battle fought against herself. What had possessed her into saying yes? She could have ignored Rosita’s message. Reply a week later with an apology and an empty promise to see each other for lunch. Hell, even send her a bottle of tequila with her lame-ass excuses! But no. She had read the text over 20 times, until she had memorized it by heart.

“Hola, Imelda. How have you been? Been waiting to know about you for ages, girl you always go ghost!!! Anyway, Ernesto and I have been planning a reunion with our group of friends from school this Saturday. Will be amazing to have you there as well. Who else can we trust to drink the guys under the table? The place hasn’t been picked yet lol but I’ll let you know !!!”

The guys, Rosita had said. Ernesto.

With trembling hands, she had put her phone down. She couldn’t afford another cracked screen. Breathe in, breathe out. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Héctor, came his name as a whisper right at the back of her head. A name that sounded so foreign yet like home. One she hadn’t dare to pronounce for so long, until she no longer remembered why she had tried to forget. Until oblivion had clouded even her reasons to do so.

It took her two hours to think of the right response. To stop herself from asking if he’d come. How his life has been. How he’s been doing. If he’s been alright. She didn’t know when, or how, but she ended up looking for his facebook account, while taking sips from her glass of red wine.

She’d need something stronger, Imelda decided as she finally found him.

Héctor Flores. 28 years old. The same bright smile that had blinded her all those years ago. That had filled her with pride whenever she managed to be the cause of it. The same messy, unruly hair she loved to play with.

It’s been so long. So, so long his features had almost blurred off her mind. When she thought of him, she had troubles describing the bridge of his nose. She no longer remembered the sound of his voice, nor the smell of his cologne. It probably was a new one. The way he walked –so carefree, so full of life, always seeming to jump, so… Héctor.

He had dimples. Oh, how she had loved to kiss them until her cheeks hurt from smiling. Until anything she could hear was his muffled laugh as he played with her braids, with her untied locks of hair. And she had forgotten about it. Héctor disappeared from her mind, stripping her from the moments she so treasured. She had known true bliss by his side. Giddy, the pure, filling-the-heart kind of happiness that had driven her to tears so many times after giving her back to him.

How guilty she felt. Betraying a love she had claimed as bigger than herself. Pushing it aside until she could not even remember how he looked when he smiled. How much she needed to see his smile again.

A sob escaped even before she could stop it. She definitely needed something strong. It’s been so long, so long. And he always managed to come back, to haunt her. His eyes – so pure, so bright, so clear – looking at her from behind his long lashes. The look of a doe. Of a child. Of Innocence. Oh, she had known it then. Possessed it, even.

It’s been so long, so long.

Like a ghost, his shadow crawls at her. Grabs her with fangs and claws whenever she thought she was doing better. And she bled and bled and bled until there was no longer something to give, nothing to take away from her. Whenever Imelda thought she was finally free, the monster laughed at her and showed with no less than cruel satisfaction how there are chains stronger than time, stronger than iron.

Before, Héctor had been her first thought in the morning, and her last before going to sleep. Clouding her judgment. Filling her with liquid, fiery joy. Before. Before she had fucked up. Before she pushed him away.

‘Me quitarán de quererte, llorona, pero de olvidarte nunca’, Chavela Vargas’ raspy voice sings trough the radio. (She could be kept from loving her, but she will never forget her). It transcends time and space – she loved her llorona the same way Imelda had loved her Héctor. A love that never dies. A love she had thought she had moved on from. She had believed herself free – how wrong she was! Chavela’s voice caresses the wind. It carries an ancestral sorrow only lovers could relate to. And Imelda understands. Listens to the wind and the way it mourns. Sees the moon and recognizes, deep in her soul, that this is the oldest of stories. A tale as old as mountains. As old as earth. As old as life.

Su paloma negra. Her Héctor.

It’s been so long. So long. And still, his memory came back. And she was once again a slave of his. At his mercy, she woke up and her first thought was the suffocating pain that pierced through her veins. The absence that surrounded her strong enough to drown in. By the time the night fell, and with a silver moon as her only confidant, it was his name she whispered. And it flew with the wind, soaring across the stars.

I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

It’s been so long.

As she got ready for the night, Imelda desperately looked for an excuse not to go. Weren’t there any orders she needed to finish? A design to fix? Some project to immerse herself in? Any obscure relative she needed to pay a visit to? The more she thought of it, the more the uneasiness grew. It was suffocating.

Imelda Rivera didn’t run from her problems. Not anymore. She faced them with poise and control, with courage and grace. And not without at least the smallest hint of tequila.

‘Y aunque te amo con locura, ya no vuelvas. Paloma negra, eres la reja de un penar. Quiero ser libre, vivir mi vida, con quien yo quiera. Dios dame fuerza, que me estoy muriendo por irla a buscar’, sang the singer. (Even if he loved her madly, he didn't want her back. His black dove, she was a cage. He wanted to be free, live his life with anyone he chose. God, give him strenght, 'cause he was dying to go after her). His broken voice was strong, and whiskey influenced. Héctor did his best not to listen to the lyrics he knew by heart. The least he needed was letting himself feel things he’d managed to ignore for years. An obstacle he’d surpassed. An open wound that no longer hurt him. A pain he had learned to swallow. 

Héctor grimaced, focusing on his pan dulce. No, thank you. He’s been doing fine, he doesn’t need to take a ride down memory lane. He’s done that enough.

“I hate my work”, Ernesto said through gritted teeth, scrolling down his twitter feed in a failed attempt at distracting himself from what he believed was the worst day of his entire life.

Héctor didn’t even flinch. Of course not. That bastard wasn’t suffering half what Ernesto was going through. How would he understand? He wasn’t the one about to be made fun of. He wasn’t the one who had got his night ruined by a witch who wore fucking crocs. “I know,” said his friend, not even looking at him. If it weren’t that he was already on the verge of collapsing, Ernesto would have picked a battle against his very best friend and his lack of tact. “You’ve been saying that non-stop for the last 20 minutes.”

Drawing a deep breath, Ernesto closed his fists. “I hate, DESPISE, LOATHE my work! And who the fuck does she think she is to give me orders?!”

Héctor was smart enough not to let the laugh that was slowly growing inside his belly. Instead, clearing his throat and after a quick sip of his coffee, asked with a raised brow. “Your boss…?”

It only gained him a deep groan and some muffled curses. “Today is my day off, and this isn’t even my shift!” He had a point, at last. Old, bitter doña Juanita was a nightmare. She knew that her café was as popular as one could get –the fashionable place amongst a growing community that started to ditch establishments such as Starbucks in favor of the so-called local shops and its motto of ‘consume mexicano’. Ernesto appreciated the effort, really. He himself preferred some coffee straight from Chiapas carefully made, but good God, was he tired of hipsters.

And honestly, he was thankful that witch even let them sing every now and then – it was a big platform and they were slowly building a fan base that even followed them to some of their other presentations. But was it seriously worth it? “Plus… giving me orders? While she’s wearing those shoes?! No, no, nooo.”

“Ernesto, you wore crocs to uni,” Héctor pointed out. He gave a bite to his conchita, and the sugar at the top formed a trace around his mouth. As if his nerves weren’t eating him alive, having to hear his friend complaining non-stop was pushing him to the edge. He wasn’t sure he’d survive to see the end of the night.

Who even suggested they all should reunite in that café, anyway? It had been Ernesto, in hopes of getting to show off their musical talent in some flashy, ‘glorious’ way. They weren’t counting on Juanita’s mood swings and never-ending caprichos. Héctor suspected the reason behind was the woman’s obsession with his friend. Every time she saw Ernesto flirting with someone – female or not – she got her unfair revenge. Always made him work later than what was necessary, and every time he was tending to the counter, she’d be by his side. Héctor had suggested his friend to just leave for good, continue living off his family’s money and playing in small venues every now and then, but nothing happened. Ernesto was sure they would be discovered in that café, and no matter what Héctor said, nothing could convince him otherwise.

‘Chíngate entonces’, had said Héctor the last time he suggested Ernesto renounce. Now, thinking back at that time, he’s sure that if he’d dare suggest the same thing the results will be different.

“That’s not true and you know that!” Said Ernesto, frowning. “Even if it were… I’m a new man now. People change, Héctor. Stop being obsessed with the past,” he finished with a roll of his eyes, taking a sip from his friend’s beverage without a second thought.

“Obsessed with the past? You were the one who suggested that we should attend this stupid thingy!”

“That was well before I was told that I had to work on my DAY OFF, NO LESS!” Ernesto protested, massaging his forehead. Taking a deep breath, he said. “You think you got it bad? I’m the one who’ll be seen wearing this stupid uniform! Those idiots will think I’m some kind of loser.”

“Which, of course, you aren’t,” Héctor’s words were dripping sarcasm, and as he raised a brow at his friend, he cleaned himself with a napkin.

Ernesto could only glare at him. “You’re only angry because I didn’t tell you Imelda was coming too.”

Rolling his eyes, Héctor let out a tired sigh. Right. Imelda. That was another issue in what was supposed to be a quiet, lovely night with some friends from school. He was suddenly hyper-aware of the old, worn out jeans he was wearing, and the distressed band t-shirt. He wasn’t expecting her – stopped doing so after the first two years. Not even being told that she had no intention to see him again had done the trick quite as good as her insufferable, constant absence.

It had hurt. Costed him countless nights lying awake trying to find where had he gone wrong. And finally, when he had at least pushed her memory away, she came back stronger than ever. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. “You could have at least warned me. But no. You only think of yourself!”

Ernesto huffed in response. “What’d you have said? That you weren’t interested! I couldn’t be the only one singing and you know that!”

Héctor snorted. “See? You only care about this damn presentation! You don’t even care about seeing them again!”

“Of course I care! I… kind of miss them”, he said, but even as his words left his mouth, he knew he wasn’t saying the absolute truth. Héctor gave him a pointed look, and he sighed. “Sometimes. BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT! You’re this pressed only ‘cause you’re seeing her again and you haven’t gotten over her.”

“I’d have done that if we’d broken up!”

“Oh, right. ‘Cause stopping talking to you doesn’t mean she’s not your girlfriend anymore.”

Now it was Héctor’s turn to glare at his friend. And if looks could kill… “You know what? Just shut up. Keep on moaning about how much you hate your work or whatever, but leave me alone.”

“Ugh. Fine. I’m sorry. But you shouldn’t be this worried anyway. She probably doesn’t even remember you that well.”

If his words stung, Héctor didn’t let it show. He only shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. “You think so?”

“Of course I do. It’s been… what? 10 years? It’s not like her life stopped.” Ernesto explained with a tranquil expression. “And neither did yours.”

It was true. Of course he had dated other people. Of course, he had sworn he had fallen in love, had a few night stands every now and then. His life hadn’t stopped, and he still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Biting hard on his lower lip, he desperately looked for a good response. Putting into words what he was feeling was harder than expected. How can one explain the uneasy feeling that never seems to leave one after the infamous “almost” phase? And she had left without a word. Not an explanation. Not even a farewell.

When Héctor closed his eyes, he could still see her. Laughing, laying in the sand. He had never seen someone quite as lovely as her – skin glowing, her reddened cheeks. The smell of watermelon and orange blossom. Acapulco had been so many years ago, but every time he dreamed he was back in there. And they were happy and in love, and nothing else mattered.

It was stupid, he knew. It didn’t make it stop, though.

“Look, it’s just… we never said goodbye properly, you know? And it’s weird. I guess. That’s… that’s all,” he said as convincing as he could. Ernesto wasn’t his best friend just by name, you see, and it didn’t escape him the way Héctor swallowed hard.

“Just don’t pay her any mind,” he suggested, giving him a small squeeze on his shoulder. “Maybe she won’t even come. Who knows. They say she’s kind of… a big deal right now, you know? Got herself a steady business and all.”

“Did she?”

“Where have you been this past decade, Héctor? She’s even been on magazines and stuff. She’s a fashion designer or something. Didn’t get to read the whole article and there isn’t a lot on her social media.”

“Oh my god, Ernesto, were you stalking her?”

“Of course not! It was mere scientific, innocent curiosity.”

“Pinche chismoso,” groaned Héctor, hiding his face behind his palms.

“Well, I might have been stalking her a little!” he explained, sounding as innocent as a child who had just stolen candy from his grandma’s house. “I just wanted to know if there was a fiancé I should warn my little brother about!”

Héctor let out an annoyed sigh, but finally nodded. “And is there?”

“What?” sheepishly submerged in his own word, Ernesto squinted at him.

“A fiancé or something,” Héctor said with a gesture of his hand, his best attempt at playing cool. At feigning noninterest.

Ernesto, mouth agape as he tried to remember what he’d seen on her facebook, shrugged. “I… I don’t know.”

“Oh my God.”

Could he be any more pathetic? He imagined her entering alongside a husband. Perhaps even a child. He didn’t need to see how good she’s been doing without him. It was pretty clear back then. When he had come back from Acapulco, eager and with his heart in his hands, and had driven to her house even under the rain with the biggest smile on his face. ‘She’s gone’, had said her mother, in a tone that didn’t lack pity, ‘didn’t she tell you?’

Imelda changed her plane ticket and went to the University of her dreams (the one she had been working for five years, saving as much money as she could just to attend) without the smallest hint of a goodbye. Héctor understood. Understood her dreams and her hunger. An ambition that matched his, but that ended up swallowing him. Pushing him aside. If she went following her dreams, he couldn’t judge. But he had loved her with everything in him – had given her his all. Had waited for her year after year after year. Had sent her texts that were never answered. Calls that she always ignored. If Héctor was angry it wasn’t because she had left him for her ambitions. It was that she simply never told him. Didn’t tell him if it was over. Didn’t tell him if it was his fault. If she was sorry. Or not. Anything. The smallest of sounds. The briefest of texts. But there was nothing.

Not then, not now. 

Imelda had always wished for fame and recognition. Had seen her work her life for it. Very well, Héctor remembers how tired she seemed some days, even as she crawled into his lap and held him tight. Even if she pretended she wasn’t. Héctor wondered if she counted him into the things her success had cost. If she ever thought of him.

‘Y agarraste, por tu cuenta, la parranda. Paloma negra, paloma negra, ¿dónde, dónde andarás?’

Gripping hard at his jarrito, Héctor took another sip. Ernesto, sensing that something was getting worse, shot a quick glare at the poor man and his guitar. But not even as the music died and the café went quiet Héctor seemed to be doing better.

Looking at the scenario, at the two guitar cases carefully resting against the wall, Ernesto took a deep breath.

“Look, we can always tell them you’re sick,” he said, finally taking Héctor away from his thoughts, bringing him back to the present, where Imelda was still a problem, where he could still run and hide. “Tell them it’s some pretty awful diarrhea that’s very, very contagious.”

Héctor nodded slowly, his eyes lit at the opportunity. “Sounds tempting.”

“I’m down if you’re down.”

“I don’t know if it’ll convince them, though,” he muttered, and his coffee never seemed as interesting as it did then.

“I can be pretty persuasive,” Ernesto said, giving his shoulder yet another squeeze. “I didn’t study my ass off at the theater school just to not put my abilities to help, right?”

It had been quite the scandal. Old, grumpy señor de la Cruz had threatened to take from his only son his mother’s inheritance. And Ernesto had said “go ahead”, and had left Santa Cecilia without a single glance. Héctor went with him. Not to the same school, of course – he ended up majoring in Literature at UNAM – but they were side by side. Got themselves a nice, small house they rented near campus. Two small boys in a city bigger than the one they’d called home. Two boys that were alone against the world. That were too eager for their own good. Ernesto got blinded by the bright billboards. By the opulence of El Palacio de Bellas Artes. Héctor tried to listen to the same muse he did. Whatever to drown the voices that kept calling for Imelda. And it worked.

It had worked just fine.

“I don’t know, you’re not that great,” he said, the smallest hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth.

“Hey!” Ernesto protested, pointing at Héctor in what he believed to be his most ‘intimidating, big brother’ stare, but that had long stopped working.

“Ernestito, why aren’t you sweeping?!” doña Juanita called from the kitchen.

“I swear to God if she calls me that another time…”

“You won’t do anything,” Héctor said with a pointed look.

“You’re right,” Ernesto sighed. Nodding slowly to himself, he took a deep breath. “And you know why? ‘Cause I’m sure we’re getting closer. We’re just about to be done with that ‘antes de la fama’ bit in our Wikipedia articles.”

“You always say so.”

“I’m positive now!”

“Speaking of blatant lies… the diarrhea thing sounds cool.” If Ernesto rolled his eyes at his drag, he didn’t say nothing, and instead let the topic drop. Hombre de poca fe.

“Let’s get this down with, then. But please, please clean your room, sí? And dinner’s on you.”

“Deal,” Héctor nodded, ready to seal their agreement with a handshake. And as he was getting up from his seat, a piercing cry stopped him on his tracks.

Rosita Hernández. How could he forget? Petrified, Héctor closed his eyelids. Please, please let me go. But it was too late. The woman almost ran to his table, and grabbed Ernesto into a tight hug. Ernesto almost fell, but he recovered pretty nice. Patting her back, he greeted her with an excitement that could only match hers.

A people pleaser, that was he was. His soft spot had always been her, anyone knew. Even as he tried to deny it.

“Héctor, is that you?!” Rosita asked, breaking the hug. “Good god, where are you going?”

Isn’t it amazing how everything goes exactly like Héctor plans, always?   
Letting out a small sigh, Héctor turned to see her, gifting her with a sheepish smile. “I… Rosita, hello! I was just… I really, I-… I have to…”

“He’s got the shits,” said Ernesto, as calm and collected one would have mistaken him for a politician. But it wasn’t long until Héctor’s sharp glance kicked his smirk off his face, and he quickly tried to correct himself. “I-I mean, he isn’t feeling right. Ate too much chorizo. You know, the cheap one you get en el centro. He has to go home.”

“Oh my god, but are you fine? Have you thrown up?”

“I… no, not yet?”

“Héctor, why don’t you take care of yourself?!” before he could protest, Rosita was shaking his head at him. He’d forgotten how motherly she was. How her sweet character could turn sour if one pushed her just right. And he wasn’t known for being a stupid man, you know. Didn’t want to test her patience when there was a bigger, more dangerous battle about to be fought.

Looking him in the eyes – all soft, raw and honest concern – Rosita studied him quietly. She appeared to understand there was more they weren’t saying. With an empathetic nod, Rosita hugged him. “Look, we can go home with you. You can’t be alone in your state. And you need to take some pills before it gets worse,” she said. Héctor knew she no longer was eating that lie, but she’d felt the need to give him a way of escape. Something he’d always be grateful for.

“I think chamomile tea will do me just right.”

She broke the hug. Shot him a glance, arching her manicured brow. “Don’t they sell that in here?”, she asked, and she seemed to be saying ‘you gotta lie better, kid’, or ‘just wait, I promise it won’t be that bad’.

“I… I don’t th—”

“Wait, corazón,” she said, stopping him mid-sentence. With a small, apologetic smile, she stepped away from him and called to her heart’s content. “Imelda, Imelda, over here!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> También de llorar se canta, Llorona, cuando llorar no se puede. People sing out of sadness when crying is not possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Héctor found she still was like eating mango at the plaza on a summer day. Like going to a fiesta patronal. Like winning at a fair. Like the strong, intoxicating first taste of tequila after a heartbreak. Like nopales and their fruit whenever spring hits. Like wildflowers growing against the asphalt. Like Imelda. Imelda sin más.

“She’s here,” Héctor muttered in a broken whisper, desperately trying to gain back his breath. Breathe in, breathe out – his heart seemed not to pay attention to his commands, beating furiously against his better judgment. A game long lost, still, Héctor tried.

“I noticed,” replied Ernesto between his teeth, a perfect smile on display just for the sake of it. If Héctor wasn’t even trying to appear discretion, then it was his job – as the cold-headed one between the two – to maintain their honor, or so he thought. 

“And I’m here too,” Héctor managed to say, and he sounded stupid even to his own ears; uselessly looking for a way out. Or for a way in; with Imelda he never knew. 

“So it seems,” Ernesto’s annoyance fell on deaf ears, with his friend too busy trying not to faint. For a small moment, his smile flickered, fits clenched. 

“I wanna throw up.”

“Héctor, shut up y déjate de pendejadas! They’re coming. She’s coming, and you better behave or…”

“I can’t do this,” the younger man shook his head, teeth biting hard on his lower lip. “I—”

“The plan still stands,” his friend told him, noticing the way he seemed about to faint. No matter how annoyed he could be at Héctor, he could never stand seeing that hopeless look on his face. “I’ll tell her,” Ernesto muttered in what seemed to be his strongest, dutiful tone, and before Héctor could protest, Imelda was facing them.

After all those years, she came with the rain.

Héctor found she still was like eating mango at the plaza on a summer day. Like going to a fiesta patronal. Like winning at a fair. Like the strong, intoxicating first taste of tequila after a heartbreak. Like nopales and their fruit whenever spring hits. Like wildflowers growing against the asphalt. Like Imelda. Imelda sin más.

He was soon stroked with the realization he had so long tried to ignore: she was his muse. It only took a quick glimpse at her to make him want to bury his head on his songbook. The thickness in the air whenever she was present made it impossible for him to keep on breathing. He needed a guitar. He needed a piece of paper. He’d sing the melody of the stars. The song of doves. Everything for his paloma negra.

Or not. He needed not a guitar – he needed another ten years, a bottle of tequila, and some vacations on a faraway land where no thoughts of her could ever torment him. Where she didn’t exist. Where she couldn’t run after him – where her voice was a ghost and her form only a bad dream. Where Héctor was happy and free, and loud and proud and lively. Living despite her. Living after knowing her.

He needed to curse her name, to forget her and put that damn love to rest already. What was she if not a shadow? What was left of her memory but sorrow?

Her hair had grown. Her curls were no longer free; tied up in a polished, low bun. She had gained a little weight, too. But it suited her, Héctor thought. She had seemed so skinny, then… like she’d disappear at any given moment. And she had, but not after taking everything with her. For so long he only had had his guitar; might as well have her with him right now and end the story as it should have all those years ago. Say all those things he always dreamed of saying until his mouth would taste like iron; until her name no longer carried any meaning with it.

Héctor still didn’t forgive her, mind you.

(So why on earth was he checking her out like some…?)

She dressed differently – she wasn’t sporting an old pair of converse, nor dirty, worn out jeans. Héctor supposed that came with her job. But was Imelda the woman who stood right in front of him? Was the woman –not the girl – who stood with a poise and a confidence of a countess really the girl that had condemned him to sleepless nights? It had been obvious back then –she was fire and fire alone. There wasn’t anything as natural as losing oneself to it. But the woman who now looked back at him hadn’t that same spark in her eyes. She was tamed. And why? For what?

Imelda was hugging Rosita. Tight against her chest, with her chin carefully resting over the other woman’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, content. Héctor had forgotten that she did that whenever she smiled. Had forgotten the effect it had on him –how sick his stomach felt, how the earth trembled beneath his feet. And it was clearer than water that the woman in front of him – that stranger draped in expensive clothing of extravagant fabric and pointy heels—was Imelda. Imelda and nothing more.

The thought was as encouraging as it was scary.

And it made his blood boil.

How dare she! How dare she still have his life at the palm of her hand! –And there were so many questions left unanswered. So many doubts that had been eating him all those years. She was there. There, there. After all those years. After everything that went through. She was there. She came back. But it wasn’t for him.

She didn’t seem so bad a tormentor when she gleamed under Rosita’s gaze. When she caressed her hair when she kissed Ernesto’s cheek, nor when she gave him a tight hug. But it was when she turned to see him with the purest look of expectation that Héctor felt deep inside his bones that she was just as he remembered – not the version he had thought himself to hate, but Imelda. Not the girl with dreams bigger than herself, and the prideful desire of running away, but a woman he didn’t know. A woman he used to love. A woman that would never cause him harm.

Imelda bit down her lip, seeming to not know how to proceed. Héctor clenched his fits, fire in his mind.

“Hello,” said she. And looked for Héctor eyes when the words left her mouth, just as much as she seemed to avoid them. The world was weighing on her shoulders, and she tried to sound calm – even if her mind was filled with memories. Filled with him.

And he was there. He was there after all that happened. Thinner, and taller, and with an unknown sadness to his eyes that eclipsed the mischievousness she had loved. And her hands trembled with the need to caress his cheekbones. To let the tears fall and damn everything that separated them, and tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That it was hers, and hers all. That she had lived to pay the price. That she would pay it ten times if it meant that she could spare him the pain she had caused him.

But she didn’t, just as she didn’t say goodbye. The words died on her throat, suffocated by the ghost of pride and decency. By the cannons of time and lost opportunities. By the desire to save him from herself.

“H-hola,” Héctor managed to say, and his voice shook under the weight of lost love and wasted times.

“Imelda! What a wonderful surprise!” Ernesto said, her hands still under his. He made an attempt at breaking the eye contact between her and his friend, but it was as if he had stopped existing. As if neither longer saw him. His voice came from afar, and Imelda was tired of listening to ghosts.

“It’s nice to see you,” came as a whisper between a tight throat that she quickly cleared, pushing back the sob that was threatening to come out. No llores, no llores. You deserve this.

Ernesto didn’t need to be pointed out that the words weren’t meant for him. Not when her eyes didn’t leave Héctor.

“Nice to see you too,” Héctor simply said, lowering his gaze. Keep it cool, keep it cool, keep it cool. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

There was a man with her. A man equally well-dressed, with a strong jaw and a thick beard.

“We’ve been missing you, dear,” said Rosita, pushing Ernesto to the side so she could hug Imelda again. “You’re always so busy. Trying to make plans with you is even harder than scheduling an audience with the president.”

Imelda laughed, and it was the same sound that used to scare pigeons at the plaza. An echo of better days. A punch that brought Héctor back to reality. She was the one who ran away. The one that he actually missed. Someone he had called home, and bliss, and his, but now was neither. A memory made of flesh, and two lovely eyes to match. “Oh, shut up! You only invited me twice before. And I already told you why I couldn’t attend,” she explained with a small smile, not letting go of Rosita’s hand.

Rosita rolled her eyes and huffed. “Work, work, work, work, work. You’re even worse than Rihanna. I’m sure you’d sleep at the shop if you could.”

“And she has. Several times, actually,” the man said, smiling politely at the others. “She never listens.”

“Pinche chismoso. Shut up!” Imelda gave his shoulder a punch, and immediately changed her posture, as if nothing had happened. “This is Javier.”

“Mucho gusto”, he said, looking at the three friends in front of him. “Hey! I actually know you… I mean, I’ve listened to you before,” he said, gesturing to both Héctor and Ernesto.

“Have you?” Ernesto asked, raising one of his eyebrows.

“Of course! I tend to come in here every Friday after work.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, then. Hope your visits have been nice.”

“They had! For so long I’ve been intending to bring Imelda with me but she’s kind of… difficult when it comes to trying new things.”

“It’s not that I’m difficult,” she cut, softly rolling her eyes, “is just that I don’t have the time to be running around doing nothing.” There were no dabs, no anger on her eyes, only a soft smile as she sat next to Rosita, her eyes pierced on the two friends before her. “You didn’t tell us you worked in here,” she finally said, looking at Ernesto.

“Didn’t think it was important,” the man shrugged, taking a seat.

“I love this place. The food, I mean. I had never visited before.”

“We play on Friday nights, and the weekend, if we’re lucky.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh, I’d love to hear you both sometime!”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Héctor said, trying hard to sound as casual as possible as he sat in front of her. His hands a mess he tried to focus in.

“Is no one else coming?” asked Ernesto after a pause, aimlessly touching where his mustache used to be. For two years, he had starred in a local production of García Lorca’s masterpieces, Blood wedding. A mustache was required for that part, and he wore it with pride.

Héctor didn’t miss the implied reference in his question, even as he tried to play it cool. He meant Roberto. Never knowing why they didn’t like each other – it was actually a good thing that he was not attending tonight’s reunion, having come around with a lie that was stupid even for his standards.

Roberto had always hated him. As one of Héctor’s friends from uni, he was around most of the time. A man whose character was that of a deep thinker. It always seemed as if he could read past Ernesto’s façade. And there was nothing he hated more than that. Not even his job. It didn’t help that Rodrigo often pointed out his manipulative tactics to an oblivious Héctor (it is persuading, you fucking asshole). And he always, always, always denied that he hated him. Instead, he treated him like a friend, with a mocking naturality that made every hair on Ernesto’s body stand on edge. How could cool, easy-going Ernesto hate on someone who showed him nothing but kindness? It was an unfair move, though he’d have thought it intelligent –admirable, even – if he wasn’t pissed off. Every. Single. Time. They. Interacted.

Ernesto wasn’t petty, mind you. He just didn’t like to hear that asshole was living a better life than him.

“Roberto called me, and it seems he has dinner with his co-workers. Said something about a promotion.”

Ernesto blinked. Oh, that damn fucker was already ruining his night.

“What about Cristóbal? Or Sofía?”

“Let’s wait for a little bit. They didn’t mention anything…” Imelda said, over a sip from her cup of coffee.

“I think Héctor should really go,” Rosita looked from Héctor to Imelda, carefully choosing her words.

“Oh, right. He’s… he shouldn’t be here.” Ernesto nodded, standing.

“D-did something happen?” Imelda asked.

“He’s sick. Pretty awfully sick, if you ask me. He has the sh—” Ernesto stopped himself, feeling Hector’s burning gaze on him.

“We’ll excuse you,” Imelda quickly said, “if you aren’t feeling well, then there’s no reason for you to be in here.”

“It’s-it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll be better after a sip of water.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her eyes on him and him only, as warm and as caring as they used to be. As warm and as caring as Héctor remembered, and it brought him to his knees.

“Y-yes,” he muttered, soft as a whisper and broken from time. She gifted him a small smile, resisting the urge to caress his cheek, to reassure him that everything was fine – there was no need to lie.

Ernesto cleared his throat. “Aren’t you gonna order something to eat?” he said, breaking the enchantment between the two, but before he could get their orders Juanita shouted at him – he needed him in the kitchen, and to the kitchen he went, not without a few curses between his teeth.

“You keep writing,” came not as a question but as a statement, after a pause. Héctor looked up from his plate, carefully avoiding showing any sign of confusion on his face. Any single emotion would betray him, he knew. It still wasn’t clear if she was to be trusted or not.

“Yeah,” said he with the smallest shrug.

“You were really good, from what I can remember,” Imelda said, and it was almost a whisper from another time. She was no longer looking at him, Héctor noticed, but it was almost as if she were. Her eyes were lost somewhere in the room, somewhere in the past ten years, and the hint of a small –so different from the ones he’d loved, with a lack of warmth and happiness and the fire that was bound to her– smile was present. “It was always clear that you—“, she stopped, as if she had been awakened from a dream. “I mean, I’m sure that now your talent must’ve been polished even more.”

Héctor, who had been following her every move in a vain attempt at studying her demeanor, didn’t let himself be fooled. For surely that must have been all – a foolish lie from a cold princess who got her pleasure from his pain. He had told him so for many, many years. A sad smile and some compliments weren’t going to change it.

“I guess one can say so,” he answered, and gave a bite to his pan dulce. If Imelda noticed how hard he was trying, she didn’t say. The change in her expression didn’t go unnoticed, still – even if it were small, soft. A calmness that was so unlike her it gave Héctor chills. She just straightened on her seat, and swallowed a sigh. She looked for his eyes – tried to catch his gaze – he had played that game before. Had lost, even. He wasn’t gonna let her win anymore. Not today. Not after what had happened.

“You write too?” she finally asked, and she seemed more controlled when she got the strength to look at Ernesto, who had just come back, taking a sip from her hot cocoa.

Ernesto, pleased than ever now that the conversation was on him again, gifted her with a marble smile and some feigned humility. “Oh, no,” he started with a gesture of his hand – there were rings now; as modest as he could be, of reds and blues; elegant hands that were good when playing the guitar, but even better when he used them to speak. “That’s Hector’s job. But I make sure we look great, so…” he finished with yet another smile, and even a small wink.

Imelda raised an eyebrow.

“You haven’t changed at all. Neither of you.”

“Contrary to you. You look almost like another person,” Ernesto said, and if Imelda didn’t know better, she’d think it was a dab at her. Still, she accepted the blow with grace, and decided to play dumb. Ernesto had no right to be angry at her, and though on other days she’d have picked a fight on metiches that couldn’t keep their damn mouths shut, she decided she preferred to let it all go on.

“Is that so?”

“The way you carry yourself… you bloomed,” he said, and this time, Imelda had no doubts. He remembered. “Whatever happened in Europe?”

“Ah, that’s a story for another time, isn’t it?” she answered, trying not to let herself be intimidated. “I wanna hear about you. What you’ve been up to, if you don’t mind,” added Imelda, carefully sharing a look with Rosita.

“I just wrapped the last season of a play I was in,” the older man said, not without a proud smile.

The play was as successful as an indie production could be, and more. Ernesto got a taste of glory, and after that, he wouldn’t let himself forget the feeling. There came a TV producer (some big name from Televisa…) but only asked him to lose a little weight and to tone up. Didn’t he mention the incredibly raw interpretation of Leonardo? There was no need to. He didn’t see the public moved to tears, scared and bewitched by a gracious man who spoke every line with a soft voice that carried the world.

Ernesto wasn’t born to be on telenovelas. He’d rather die. Movies, on the other hand… In his dreams, Hollywood was his by birthright. He’d conquer the States. He’d win more Oscars than anyone else. He’d win Tonys. Golden Globes. Grammys, even. He’d work with Meryl Streep. Starr in Broadway. Perform at Bellas Artes. Then he’d go on and make pointless –but aesthetically delights – European movies. He’d party with Del Toro. Salma would laugh the loudest from his jokes and his jokes only. And glory would be his and his all.

When morning came, he was just another awaken dreamer. Not a roof of his own above his head. Barely anything left in the fridge,m and a hunger that wouldn’t know peace at the hands of a feast. So he’d get up. Brush the nostalgia off his shoulders and work twice as hard. Perhaps one day it’ll be finally worth it. People, however, were ignorant of his struggles. He made damn sure of that. A dreamer without success is a dreamer that only gets sneered at. Un pendejo. The joke of the town. An amusement for those who didn’t succeed either, stuck on their boring, meaningless lives for over 64 years, until their tired bodies would give up.

But even if his life was miserable and his dreams nowhere to be seen fulfilled, Ernesto hoped. Ernesto worked, and most importantly, Ernesto bragged.

With genuine smiles on their faces, the group congratulated him, and he soon was the object of several questions thrown at him – each with equal admiration.

“I’m about to open my own bakery,” Rosita answered what she was up to, after Imelda asked, in a soft voice that could barely hide the excitement she felt. “No more online requests, I’m serious about this!”

“You always liked baking, didn’t you?” Imelda smiled with fondness, and when Rosita’s face lit up, she remembered just how much she had missed her. Just how much she loved her.

“And she’s always made the best marranitos in all Mexico!” Héctor added, passing his arms around Rosita’s shoulders.

“Héctor over here almost got married,” Ernesto abruptly said, having caught on the soft look Héctor and Imelda were sharing (probably without noticing; looking at each other was almost a habit, and they were scared to learn just how easy it was –even after all the pain– to lose themselves in the other).

“Oh, for fuck’s…” the man cursed under his breath, rolling his eyes.

“And thank God he didn’t!” said Rosita with a sneer.

“I-I’m sorry…?” Javier blinked, carefully cleaning the crumbs of pan dulce that had fallen from her mouth.

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m over it now,” said Héctor with a nonchalant movement of his hand. “She wasn’t that special.”

Imelda accepted the blow with as much grace as she could, yet again. Or what she thought was a blow, anyway. Héctor hadn’t meant to harm her –not that bad, at least – and when he saw the somber shadow clouding her eyes, he almost felt guilty. Almost.

“I always knew you two weren’t meant for each other. She was…” Rosita bit her lip, looking for a word that wouldn’t sound so mean.

“Was she bad?” Javier asked. Imelda was too busy

“She was jealous of every single person who walked on Earth,” explained Ernesto.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I don’t think he is, corazón,” Rosita said with a sad smile, softly caressing Héctor’s hair.

“Well, she was just a teeny tiny bit jealous but…”

“Era bien pero bien mamona,” Ernesto said with a roll of his eyes. And she had been an ass; everyone who had met her thought as well. But she was interesting to talk to, and that was not up for debate. 

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Took you too fucking long.”

“What about you?” Imelda asked, looking at Ernesto. “Has there been someone important in your life?”

“Juanita!” Héctor said with a wink, gaining himself a punch from his friend.

“Shut the hell up!”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t have the biggest crush on her when you started working in here.”

“I’m over it, Héctor. Can’t you?”

“Who’s Juanita?” Imelda asked, raising her eyebrow. Rosita giggled, taking another sip from her cup.

“My worst nightmare,” Ernesto said.”

“The love of his life,” Rosita whispered, and Héctor let out a loud laugh.

“Fuck off.”

“Ernestoooo, why aren’t you at the counter? There are people coming!”

“There she is,” Rosita smiled.

“Lovely as always.”

“I hate my job,” Ernesto sighed, and stood up as slow as he could.

“What about you?” Rosita asked after a pause, carefully avoiding Héctor’s glaze.

“What about me?” Imelda blinked, suddenly stopped playing with her embroidered napkin.

“How was Europe?” Héctor asked before Rosita could, and the woman smiled apologetically at her friend, who had her eyes lost on the man who was once the love of her life. 

“It was as I expected it to be, I guess,” she said, and it took all her power not to let herself show any emotion.

“Cheers to that, then.”

“Thank you.”

“Mmm, you should totally try this concha, Imelda! The insides are the softest I’ve ever eaten!”, Javier said as discreetly as he could, but it served them right as to change the subject of their chat, forgetting for a little while just the kind of history the two lovers had.

The chat went on, sometimes with the four of them losing themselves to a bad joke, or just remembering the good old times. Neither asked again about anything that could be related to Héctor and Imelda’s breakup, but it wasn’t needed – the two of them had its consequences written on their eyes, even as they tried to play civil. Still, Héctor found it incredibly easy to forget about it for a while – even if it was only by hearing her laughter. Even if said oblivion could only be met for a few minutes.

It was scarier finding out that he didn’t hate her. Not even a little. Not even if that was what he wanted the most.

As for Imelda, she still couldn’t believe how much she had missed him, and how big her regret was. She had tried for years to push those feelings until they were drowned, but she could no longer run. She found that she didn’t want to, she just wanted a chance to make it alright. An opportunity to stay.

But with pan dulce they both tried to silence their thoughts, and at least for a day, they won.

“We should do this again soon. Perhaps at another hour, so Ernesto can be with us as well,” Rosita said, grabbing her purse from the back of her seat.

“I’d love to,” Imelda said, giving Rosita a big hug. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too. Hope next time isn’t that far in the calendar!”

“I promise it won’t. Goodbye!” she said, gifting Héctor a soft but firm handshake. And with that, Imelda went to the door, Javier by her side.

“You should tell her.”

“I’m over her, Rosita. For real.”

“If you’re so sure then why were you looking at her as if…”

“Please.”

Rosita sighed, softly nodding. “You two should talk anyway.”

“We already did.”

“No, this wasn’t talking. This was just… hacerse pendejos. You should talk. Alone.” Fooling out and lying to themselves would get them nowhere.

“Rosa…”

“Just tell her of the party,” she cut him, gesturing nonchalantly with her hands. “If you’re over her, it shouldn’t be that hard.”

Héctor resisted the urge to roll his eyes, Rosita’s know-it-all smile making his insides twists.

He was never a wise man, you see, and he was often guilty of doing things just to prove others wrong.

That night it was no different.

“Imelda! Imelda!” he cried, running after her. Damn it. Everything to erase that stupid smug smile on Ernesto and Rosita’s faces!

“Héctor?” Imelda turned, stopping her walk, and just as she did Héctor was at a loss of words. Fuck.

“Are you—I mean. Rosita has already accepted, but I was thinking that… You know, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Like, we’ll totally get it if—”

“What is it, Héctor?” Imelda interrupted him, a small smile barely noticeable on her face.

“At her place. This Friday, 9 on the dot. We’ll bring the food.”

She seemed to be thinking it over, and for a second he almost cursed himself, until she spoke again. “I’ll bring the tequila, then.”

“They’ll really appreciate it if you go,” he said, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.

“I’ll be there.”

Héctor nodded, and with a small bow of his head, he turned to go back to the café.

“Héctor,” she called, suddenly closing her eyes. Breathe in, breathe out.

“Yes?” he asked, not daring to turn and face her again.

“I’m glad to hear you’ve been doing fine.”

It was the most vulnerable she had sounded all evening, and Héctor suddenly felt the urge to wrap his arms around her. Or to run away to Africa and never hear her like that again, it was hard to tell.

Swallowing hard, he fought back a sob. It is never quite as clear just how much you’ve missed someone until you have them by your side again. Or until you are reminded things will hardly ever be the same.

“T-thank you,” he said, and it was almost a whisper. His voice no longer carried a sharp tone, nor it was pronounced as another defensive tactic. It was just Héctor – solo Héctor – and that was more than enough to break them both. “I… suppose we’ll see each other at the party, then?”

“I suppose we’ll do,” Imelda whispered, hugging herself tight. Oh, if only she could just say how damn sorry she was! Her throat was aching with words never spoken. Her soul was breaking with yearn and loss, and a love that had never died, no matter how hard she tried to kill it.

 

“Goodbye, Imelda.”


End file.
